Never Look Back. Sheri WhiteFeather
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sensation.
He brushed the bandage under her sleeve. “Is this covering the wound I gave you?”
“Yes.” She swayed a little. His face was only inches from hers. “What’s it like being a raven?”
“Confusing. When I’m in that form, I have the comprehension of a man, but I react like a bird.” He continued to hold her arm. “I didn’t mean to bite you. To hurt you that way.”
“It’s okay. It was instinct.” A conflict of nature, she thought. “I should make that tea.”
“Are you still cold?” He hadn’t released her.
She took a lust-driven breath. “No.”
“Nor am I.” He glanced at the front of her nightgown, at the flutter of feminine lace. A second later, he shook his head and stepped back. “I miss my wife.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He’d been married to a woman that he’d desperately loved. That he hadn’t forgotten, not even a century later. And here she’d been worried about the bird having a mate. How ironic was that?
They walked into the living room and Samantha darted into a corner to hide.
Raven ignored the wary cat and studied his surroundings, taking a special interest in the mural that covered the wall. He even reached out to touch the dragon.
Curious, Allie watched him.
“In the beginning, the world was covered with darkness,” he said. “The night had no moon or stars. But there were birds and beasts. One of the beasts was a dragon.” He ran a finger down its scales. “Like this. The coating on its skin came in four layers.”
“I wasn’t aware that dragons existed in Apache myths.”
“You were not taught our creation story?”
“No. I’m only half Chiricahua.”
“The witch half,” he said.
“Yes.” Her chest turned tight. “What happened to the dragon? Did anyone ever slay him?”
He nodded. “A young boy whose name was Apache. He shot the dragon four times. The fourth piercing exposed the beast’s heart and killed him. After that, Usen taught the boy how to gather herbs and how to hunt and fight. He became the first chief of our people.”
“Then maybe this is him.” Allie gestured to the knight in the mural. “Maybe I painted him without knowing it.”
“Like you did with me.” Raven made a thought-provoking expression. “You’re a shaman.”
“No, I’m not.” She resisted the urge to step back, to move away from him. “I don’t conduct ceremonies.”
“Your paintings are your ceremonies.”
“But I don’t cure the sick. I was involved in a healing once, but the main source of power didn’t come from me.”
“Not all Apache shamans heal. Some are bringers of rain. Some have medicine over snakes. Others can shoot guns without touching the trigger.”
“And I give men wings?” She pointed to the television, then smiled a little. “There’s an energy drink on TV that claims to do that.”
He smiled, too. The transformation made him look even more handsome. “I know about those entertainment boxes. I have watched them in store windows.”
And he came from the era where moving pictures were invented. “You fascinate me. The man and the raven.”
“You do that to me, as well. The woman and her paintings.”
Another intimate moment passed between them, and she told herself this wasn’t as strange as it seemed. That it was fate. Part of her destiny. Something that was meant to happen.
“I’ll get our tea.” She started for the kitchen, then stopped, turning back to look at him. He’d clarified her confusion about her power. He’d called her artwork ceremonies, associating it with shamanism.
Giving her magic new meaning.
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